


That Old Familiar Place

by takethisnight_wrapitaroundme



Category: Blindspot (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, heist!joscar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-14
Updated: 2017-09-14
Packaged: 2018-12-29 16:44:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12089133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/takethisnight_wrapitaroundme/pseuds/takethisnight_wrapitaroundme
Summary: [AU: Jane and Oscar are career criminals.] The house in Virginia: before, during, and after.





	That Old Familiar Place

**Author's Note:**

> Kindly eschew all your memories of Blindspot here. This story is completely unrelated to that show—though fans of Banshee will see many similarities, as Ana and Hood (and Rabbit) inspired this entire universe. Readers, please enjoy. This is one of my favorite AUs. :)

 

They stumbled upon the house together, just five months after they met. They'd been seeking shelter after a job, having missed their ride out of Richmond to New York, and they had been wandering for hours looking for a safe place to stay. They still had their take with them—nearly four million dollars in rare pieces of jewelry—and they hadn't wanted to risk staying anywhere public.

Jane spotted the farmhouse just when Oscar was thinking of giving up. He had already calculated how many shifts they would have to trade until dawn; he had already resigned himself to forcibly fitting his too-long frame into the backseat of the car to catch an hour or two of sleep here or there. But then she saw the house. He killed the lights after she pointed it out, and then followed her directions off the main road and onto a dusty dirt side road. They trundled along for a good couple miles until they were about a quarter of a mile away; he cut the engine and they got out.

As usual, they split the take, slinging it on identical bags on their backs, each hanging off one shoulder, so if one of them got hit, the other could grab the second bag and run. That was always the protocol if anything went downhill:  _run_. Shepherd was back in the city, waiting expectantly for his profits, and neither of them was about to be the reason he didn't get his money.

The farmhouse had looked empty from the main road, which is why Jane had pointed it out, but up close, it seemed deserted to the point of being haunted. The steps creaked when they walked up onto the front porch, and the front door was missing completely. Silently, they drew their handguns and stepped inside, one after the other, watching each other's backs. They cleared all the rooms twice before they were certain they were alone.

One of the bedrooms upstairs blessedly still had a mattress, so they decided to take turns resting on it during the night. Though she offered to stay up, he insisted on taking the first shift, and she was too tired to argue. She handed him her bag, set her gun on the floor, and lay down. He sat on the far edge of the mattress, facing the door, and for a few minutes before she drifted off, she watched him. She looked at the firm muscles in his back as he sat, tall and rigid and ready, willing to take on whomever or whatever stepped through that door.

With him watching out for her, she fell asleep quickly and without fear.

This was only the tenth job they'd been on together in less than half as many months, but already she had learned to trust him—and, to her surprise, it appeared he had learned to trust her too. It still amazed her sometimes, especially in moments like this one, where they were alone and he put his back to her. She could easily incapacitate him; kill him, even. Her gun was a half-foot away and his back was turned; she'd have the element of surprise. She could ransom him back to Shepherd and in return find herself richer than anyone ever featured in  _Forbes_. But he never so much as blinked a suspicious eye at her, at least not after those first few jobs together, and during that night at the farmhouse, he never once turned to check on her, at least not while she was still awake.

Maybe he thought her incapable of such mindless, sloppy violence.

Or maybe he trusted her, truly trusted her, the way one was supposed to trust only family.

 _No_. She shook the thought off at once. Someone who spent so much time at Shepherd's side was not capable of such a pure form of trust.

 _It's nothing more than bonds formed in the fire of battle,_ she reminded herself. Oscar had spent the last five or so months guarding her back while she cracked every safe put in front of her, broke every lock in her way, and outsmarted every security system designed to catch her out. He had killed people to protect her, to protect their take, and on occasion, when it proved necessary, she had done the same for him. They had put themselves on the line for each other, for their jobs, again and again and again. She, like him, had done whatever it took to keep her partner safe.

Except that one time.

The first time Shepherd hit him in her presence, she hadn't known what to do. She had been so busy cradling her newly broken wrist—it had been smashed during the job, when they'd almost been caught, which was why they were in Shepherd's office—and so she hadn't seen the first punch. It was just a blur in her periphery, a sharp exhalation of air, a grunt. By the time she looked up, the second and third punches here landing: on his jaw, at his eye. She blinked and stared, mouth open, not sure if what she was seeing was real.

She knew Shepherd often handled his own dirty work himself—he was famous for it—but she had expected his fists would be saved for rivals who had overstepped onto his turf, or turncoats who had shown their true colors too early to escape unscathed. She hadn't expected he'd beat one of his own—at least, not one of his own who had done nothing wrong.

She'd tried to say so. She'd tried to open her mouth and shout  _It was my fault, not his!_  but she could hardly breathe. One punch had turned into five, ten, fifteen, and Oscar did nothing to defend himself as the blows came down and the blood started to flow. He did not beg for mercy; he did not attempt to explain himself as the blame was put squarely on his chest. Only two words ever exited from between his bloodied lips:  _Yes, sir_.

"You could've gotten her killed today!" Shepherd screamed. "You could've been made! All that profit she brings us—it could've all been lost, because of  _your_  stupidity!" There was a crunch of something—bone?—and Oscar fell to the floor only to be dragged back up, Shepherd's bicep curling around his neck as he wrenched the younger man up to his feet, and held him up, back-to-chest, so he faced her. They both faced her.

"Look at her," Shepherd ordered, and Jane felt the fear make her go suddenly boneless, nerveless. She couldn't feel anything except the fear; she couldn't look away from the carnage in front of her. "You look at her face, and you think about what could've happened to her. She's the best safecracker we've had in years, and now look! Look at that wrist of hers. Shattered! Tell me how much money that's going to make me lose. Tell me— _where the fuck were you when she was ambushed_?"

Her partner offered no defense. His face was starting to change color from the bruises and the from the lack of oxygen, and it looked like if Shepherd didn't let go soon, Oscar was going to pass out. Jane opened her mouth to try and speak for him, to explain that there was nothing he could have done; she should have seen the guard coming herself, since Oscar had been busy looking over the—

"You have  _one_ duty, and that is making sure she is able to do her job. She will not be treated like she's expendable, do you hear me?"

" _Yes, sir."_

Jane didn't know how he got the words out, for his lips were taking on a frighteningly blue tinge. As if in response, Shepherd's arm tightened even further around his neck. "If someone has to break a bone or go to prison or take a bullet to the head," he hissed, "I'd rather it be you than her."

Oscar could hardly breathe; Jane could see the whites of his eyes bursting red from the pressure, but he made himself say the words: " _Yes, sir."_

Shepherd dropped him then, so suddenly that Jane feared he'd broken her partner's neck, but when Oscar coughed and gasped horrifically for air, she knew he was alive, and the relief hit her like a smack to the face. She had to dig her nails into her palms to keep herself steady—and locked in place. As much as she wanted to, she knew better than to try and help him up.

Later, after Shepherd had wiped the blood off his knuckles in order to examine her wrist, he gave her the number of his private physician. He looked her in the eye with a gentle smile as he wished her a speedy recovery, and then he excused them both with a nod to the door, as if this had been nothing more than their regular strategy meeting.

She had not known what to say, at first, once they were out of Shepherd's office. She felt the unfamiliar urge to touch him—to comfort him somehow, hold him even, as if that could possibly take away all the pain she had inflicted on him—but all he muttered once the door closed was,  _Don't_ , and so she had done nothing.

He headed down the hallway, no doubt intending to leave her there alone, but for some reason, she couldn't hold herself back. Now that they were away from Shepherd's presence, that masterful, controlling, immobilizing presence, she felt finally free to act. She followed after him, jogging to catch up to his longer strides.

"I don't blame you, you know," she whispered once she was close enough for him to hear. "My wrist isn't your fault. What happened on that job isn't—"

"Yes, it is."

Part of her was briefly surprised he didn't immediately reply with  _Yes, sir_. The rest of her bounced back as usual.

"Just because Shepherd says it is, that doesn't make it true."

He gave a sour laugh, then lifted the lid of a nearby trashcan to spit out a mouthful of blood. "You really think that, do you? After what you just saw? Come on. I know you're the golden goose who can do no wrong, but use your brain. His word  _is_ truth. It's law."

"Don't treat him like that," she snapped, angry and embarrassed all at once.

"Like what?"

"Like he's all-powerful. Like he's God. He  _isn't_."

He smiled humorlessly at her, his teeth stained red with blood from the beating. "Whatever you need to tell yourself," he murmured, and then he pushed open the door to the bathroom on the left.

She thought about leaving him there. She thought about walking away from him as he had from her—but she knew she couldn't. It was her fault he was hurt, and so she followed after him into the bathroom.

He was standing in front of the sink, running the water as he began washing off the congealed blood and cleaning his open cuts. She watched him in the mirror; he flinched when he soaped the places where Shepherd's fists had broken open his skin, but he never shrank from the task at hand. Save for a few winces here and there and the quietest of curses as he ripped off some ragged skin, the room was mostly silent.

She stood behind him and she made herself watch.

It wasn't until he'd washed the last of the red out of the sink that she finally found her voice.

"You went in there knowing what would happen," she whispered. "You knew what he would do when he heard the news that the job had been botched. You knew…" Bile rose in her throat. "You knew it'd be you he'd go after, not me."

"Course I knew," he muttered, dismissing her concern with a snort. "I'm always the one he goes after. Always have been. That's not gonna change just 'cause you're here now."

Her stomach twisted sickly. She didn't like how casual he was being about this. She knew what such detachment must mean, and yet she couldn't keep her mouth shut.

"How long?" she whispered. She tried to sound commanding, but her voice lost all its force when she looked at his battered face. His cuts were starting to open up again. "How long—Oscar, how long has this been happening?"

"Oh, I don't know…" He gave a shrug as he reached out to turn off the faucet. "Since I was in the womb, I imagine."

She felt her stomach drop, and she stared at him, heart pounding, but he did not look up to meet her eyes. He took his time dabbing at the fresh wave of blood from his newly opened cuts, and only afterward did he speak.

"Thank you," he said quietly, stepping away from the mirror.

She frowned at the gratitude. She hadn't done anything. "For  _what_?" she demanded.

"For not trying to stop him." He turned around, and for what felt like the first time in a very long time, he looked her right in the eye. His face was starting to swell and turn an awful shade of bluish purple, and yet she couldn't look away. "If you'd tried to interrupt him, he would've beaten the both of us unconscious, and I…" For a moment he hesitated, and neither of them moved. They stood and stared at each other in silence. She watched a slow trickle of blood start up again, from his temple this time. Finally, he looked away, ducking his head down to the floor. When he spoke, it was in a whisper. "Jane, I couldn't stand to watch him hurt you."

She had never gotten around to telling him she felt the same—that to watch him be hurt like that had taken more out of her than she knew she had, that the pain that had once been throbbing in her broken wrist felt like nothing,  _nothing_ , compared to the pain of seeing him be hurt—but she never found the words. Not once.

For four months afterwards, they worked together in near-silence. They spoke only about their assignments, objectives, and escape routes. She never asked how he was healing (slowly), or if he had needed stitches (he had), or if he'd gone to see a doctor (he hadn't). She never asked anything, not until the morning she woke up in that run-down farmhouse in Virginia and saw that he had disappeared.

Her first thought was one of panic—he had betrayed her, disappeared into the night and taking the prize they'd both worked so hard for with him—but when she saw her bag was still on the mattress next to where he'd been sitting last night, she relaxed. She lifted it to feel the weight; nothing had been taken. She reached over to the bedside table to hold her gun; it gave her a feeling of security. She waited a second, listening for him, but the house was silent. He had never woken her during the night like he was supposed to. They were meant to trade off shifts, share the burden like usual. He had taken this one all on himself, and she did not like that. She hated being babied, hated being viewed as less than capable by men. It was one of the reasons she'd initially been so eager to join Shepherd's team: he saw her as nothing but an asset, the same as all his other assets—and oftentimes,  _better_ than those other assets. He had carved out an entire role in his organization, just for her.

She used to thrill at that prospect. Now it just left her feeling simultaneously exhausted and on edge. Shepherd had shown her nothing but courtesy since he'd brought her on, but she never had been able to forget that afternoon in his office. During sleepless nights, she sometimes wondered what it would take for him to turn on her the way he'd turned on Oscar. A sinking feeling told her it couldn't be much.

Dawn had only just risen as she made her way out of the master bedroom and down the old farmhouse's creaking stairs. She had her bag slung over her back and her gun in hand, though she held it loosely. Before she'd left the bedroom, she'd glanced out one of the windows and spotted him sitting out on the back porch. He hadn't run after all.

She took her time moving through the first floor before going out to meet him. Ostensibly, she was checking to make sure they hadn't left any traces of themselves behind when they'd snuck inside late last night. But really, she found herself looking at the details of the house itself: the artful curve of the bannister on the staircase, the way the morning light flooded the kitchen at dawn, the perfect view of the expansive backyard from the dining room…

"Nice place, huh?"

He glanced over his shoulder when she spoke, then just as quickly he faced forward again. Before them stretched abandoned and overgrown fields. They, like the house, had not been tended in what might be half a decade.

But they were beautiful.

It  _all_ was beautiful.

"Nice place," he agreed finally. Then he got to his feet and turned to follow her back inside, out the front door, and down to the car. He tried to keep his eyes on the road while he drove back to the main highway, but every few seconds, he glanced back in the rearview mirror to get one last glimpse at that house. In his periphery, he could see her watching it disappear, too. Once it was out of sight, she slumped back in her seat and leaned her forehead against the window. She didn't speak until they reached New York. He turned on the radio to cover the hours of silence.

When they got back to the city, he made a couple calls inquiring about the availability, just out of curiosity. He found out that the farmhouse had been foreclosed upon years ago, the land and property seized by the bank, but never bought back or sold. Given the current economic climate, it could be purchased by someone of only slightly more than moderate means. Upkeep would be another matter, but then, he had a lot of free time on his hands when he wasn't actively working on a job. Shepherd was generous with them, and didn't overschedule them; he didn't want to push them too hard too fast. Their new business partnership was proving incredibly lucrative, but as usual, Shepherd was out for quality, not quantity. He didn't want to burn them out; he wanted to invest in them. They were his future, in more ways than just business.

That's why he threw a party when they returned triumphant (if belated) from Richmond, to celebrate their continuing fine work. He brought out champagne he had been saving, and he toasted to them and their ever-lengthening list of jobs well done. He shook both their hands, met their eyes, and reminded them with that paper-white, sharp-toothed smile that not only was he proud of them, he owned them.

The champagne grew sour quick, but they both knew better than to stop drinking it.

Shepherd was watching, and it was supposed to be a party, and so they smiled and danced and joked and laughed with the rest of the group, and soon enough, with the help of the alcohol, the act became truth. When Oscar had had enough to lose some of his inhibitions, he asked her to dance. He was swaying a little on his feet already, and she grinned, eager to lead, and took his hand. As they moved about the room in tandem, it seemed to him that everything around them had disappeared. Be it because of the alcohol, or the close proximity of her…

It was the first time in his life that he had been in a room with Shepherd and managed to forget—for even those few short minutes—that he was in a room with Shepherd. He had never before met anyone who had that power. That  _gift_.

Later in the night, when the party had died down and even Shepherd had retired for the night, he found her sitting in a far corner of the room, tucked up in an armchair turned to the windows that afforded a multi-million dollar view of the city below. But she wasn't looking at the city.

He could see it there, in the vacancy in her eyes: she was remembering that farmhouse haven they'd left behind, so different from this place they were trapped in now. He watched her and he wondered if he was there with her in her fantasies of that place, as she was in his.

* * *

Two weeks later, when they kissed for the first time and he closed his eyes, he pictured them together again on that old back porch. The wheat fields in front of them, the forest at the distance. The house standing tall behind them, hiding and protecting them from everything else in the world. The next day, he called the realtor's office in Virginia and inquired if they might accept full payment for the old farmhouse in cash.

* * *

He did not tell her about the house for another two and a half years. He knew it was an enormous gesture, an all-caps statement, and there was no point in revealing it to her until their future was set in stone. And even after it was set in stone, and that stone was secure around the third finger of her left hand, he still waited. Hesitated. He'd been sneaking down to Virginia on a regular basis to work on the house, to make it livable, and in that time it had become his own private refuge, his escape from their work, and especially from Shepherd. Part of him was afraid that once he shared it—even with her—it would cease to be the secret sanctuary that it once was.

But he should've known better.

They had been engaged for just over six months when Shepherd called him into his office–just him. Oscar was nervous going in as he was always nervous around Shepherd. But more so, because he had not met with Shepherd in private since the before the engagement. Every meeting since then had either been about business or about the wedding (the two were quickly blending into one), and during every meeting, Jane had been by his side.

Without her there, he felt exposed and unprepared, and he knew something was going to go wrong. He just didn't expect it to be this.

Shepherd was quiet as usual as Oscar came into the room and sat down. One of Shepherd's many guards pulled the door closed behind him, and then they sat, in silence, as Shepherd finished reviewing whatever profit report was in front of him. Finally he set it aside and looked up.

"So. When are you going to tell my soon-to-be daughter-in-law that you've bought her a home? Surely before the wedding?"

Oscar tried to swallow, to answer, but something got caught in his throat. He felt as if someone had gutted him: he could feel the initial stab radiating out of his chest, he could imagine his innards spilling onto the floor.

"You… You know about the house in Virginia?" He just barely managed to make it a question. To make it a statement would have been a threat. And one did not threaten Shepherd.

Shepherd smiled. "Of course I know. Who do you think knocked down the price for you?"

"Oh." He closed his eyes, trying to keep a grip on the world despite the sudden thudding in his head. He should've known Shepherd was involved. He should've assumed. What law-abiding realty office accepts hundreds of thousands of dollars in cash, anyway? He should've known from the second he sat out on that back porch with her that that home would be a trap, that it would end like this, with Shepherd dangling it over him like he dangled everything: only to snatch it back, and then beat him for his naiveté.

"I'll sell it," he whispered before Shepherd could order him. "I'll go down to Virginia tomorrow and explain—"

"Sell it?" Shepherd was frowning. "Why would you do that?"

He looked up, his throat caught. His entire being was caught. He was simply waiting for the fists now, as he had been all his life.

"I want you and your lovely bride to have a nice home. Virginia's a bit out of the way, of course, but we can make do. You'll both stay here in the city for at least four months out of the year; the other months, you'll do remote jobs. You will keep the house."

Shepherd smiled then, leaning back a little in his chair. Oscar braced himself as surreptitiously as he could, for he knew the punch was coming now. It was imminent. It took all of his hard-fought willpower to keep his body from flinching in anticipation; he knew that always made it worse.

"And would you like to know how I'd like to be repaid for all the money I saved you?"

Oscar swallowed. He opened his mouth to speak, but his throat betrayed him. It was too tight, too frightened. He could only nod.

Shepherd's smile widened. He tapped the side of his nose with a finger as he got to his feet. "Grandchildren, son. At least two." He walked around to the door and held it open. "Only children can prove problematic, you know."

* * *

He did not tell her about the meeting with Shepherd. He did not tell her about the house. He did not tell her about the ultimatums he'd been given. Instead, when they went to bed that night and she commented that he seemed off, he simply shrugged, put his back to her, and muttered that he was tired.

That was all she needed to hear. He'd hardly put his back to her by the time she was moving behind him, wrapping her arms around him, and burying her head into his back. "I love you," she told him, and he could've cried. She had learned so well how to help him when even he didn't know how to ask for it.

They lay there for a long while, her holding him and whispering softly, and him fighting to find a way out of the corner he'd backed himself into. Eventually they both fell asleep, and when he woke the next morning, it was before her. He spent a few minutes watching her as she slept, knowing innately that he wouldn't trade this— _her_ —for anything. No matter what Shepherd asked for, he would give it. He would do whatever it took to keep Jane safe and by his side.

And that was why, when she woke up, he told her to pack a bag. Just a few small things, he said, for a weekend trip. She frowned at him, worry creasing her forehead—he wasn't the type for spontaneous trips, and she was still anxious for him after the previous night—but he promised her he was thinking straight.

In truth, he was thinking in the only direction Shepherd had allowed him, but then, when had he ever been given another option?

* * *

"What in the world…"

He smiled at her disbelief as he pulled off the main road and onto the smaller dirt side road, heading toward that old farmhouse they'd once hidden out in. He was privately pleased she still recognized it. He'd done a lot of work on the exterior, including replacing the missing front door, rebuilding the front and back porches, and repainting the entire exterior. He thought it looked rather beautiful, but as ever, it was her opinion that mattered.

She was scrambling out of the car before he'd even managed to put it in park, and by the time he got out too, she was pelting him with questions. He answered each with a smile, feeling her excitement feed his own.

At one point, she asked when he had started all this, and when he confessed that he bought the house the day after they first kissed, she hugged him so hard in joy and disbelief that she put a crick in his back. But it was worth it. It was all worth it, so long as he got to spend the rest of his life here, with her.

They took their time walking from the car to the house, craning their necks to stare up at the upper story and the roof above. It still needed a bit of work—there were a couple leaks and some of the shingles were missing—but the building was in overall good shape. When they reached the porch landing, he handed her the key to do the honor of unlocking their new home. She did so, but before she could take a single step inside, he picked her up and carried her over the threshold like a married woman, grinning at her laughter.

"Too soon," she warned teasingly, "you'll jinx us," and he kissed her in reply, silencing the critic in her, and himself, for a few hours or so.

By the time they made it up to the master bedroom, they were well worn-out, but the space energized them both somehow. It was  _theirs_. She said as much as she led him inside by the hand, and he did not correct her.

Damn whatever Shepherd said, he thought suddenly. This woman was going to be his wife and he was going to be her husband and this was  _their_  home. He would make it safe for her. Perfect for her.

She let go of his hand, and he watched as she backed her way towards the bed, slowly unbuttoning her shirt with every step. Despite the fact that he'd already undressed her a couple times that day, he grinned at the striptease, following a half-step after her. He helped her out of her clothes, and she out of his, and so by the time they tumbled into bed, they were both naked.

For once, though, he did not immediately pull her towards him. Instead, he found himself leaning back and looking, of all places, down at her stomach. She was as thin as ever, but when he reached out a hand to touch her, he could swear her flat belly was expanding, growing round beneath his touch. He cupped her stomach delicately, as if it were full, and she reached down to cover his hand with hers. His head jerked up, shocked out of his reverie and frightened of her reaction, but when he caught her eye, he saw that she was smiling down at him, knowing already what he was thinking.

"I want that too," she whispered, and then she reached up with both hands to pull him close.

It was only later, after breakfast the next day, that she asked how his conversation with Shepherd had gone. They sat on the back porch, nursing mugs of coffee, watching the field soak up the sun. He sat on the top step, his legs spread so she could fit in between them. She sat a step lower, and used his knees as armrests as she reclined back into him.

"What did he say when you told him about the house?"

Oscar did not even pretend not to know what she was talking about. He bent forward, bowing his head to her shoulder for a moment. She allowed it, and cupped the back of his neck. Gently, she ran her fingers through the short hairs at the back of his neck. She turned her head to kiss his temple, to whisper in his ear that she loved him.

The words gave him enough strength to speak.

"My father offered his hearty congratulations on the engagement," he answered finally. His voice was as dead as the boards beneath them. "And he expects one day that I will pay back the difference on the house—and the wedding, I'm sure—with enough grandchildren to make him forget what a disappointment I turned out to be."

Her hand fell from his neck, and he squeezed his eyes shut. Somehow, he had grown to dread her judgements even more than he did Shepherd's.

"So that's it," Jane whispered. "He knows about this place."

"He's always known," Oscar replied, taking on that defeated tone she knew so well—and hated so much. "I was stupid to think I could hide it from him. And I was cruel to encourage that hope in you; I'm sorry, I am. I just… I wanted to let us live in that fantasy, if only for a day. But this place can't be a refuge; it never was. He knew the second I so much as thought twice about it. Just like he knew with you—"

"He didn't know about me."

"He knew I wanted you."

" _Everyone_  knew you wanted me."

He smiled briefly at her mocking, touching a kiss to the back of her head. "Still," he whispered, sobering a moment later. "It's different now."

"It is."

They were quiet for a minute. Then she leaned back, until her back rested against his chest. She turned her head into him.

"What I said last night still stands," she whispered. "I want a life with you; I want a family with you. But not on his terms, and not for his benefit." She pulled back so they could look each other in the eye. "Do you understand me? We will not be having children until that man is out of our lives for good."

* * *

For months, they did not discuss out loud what that decision meant. They focused on moving their things into the house, on fixing up what they could fix up, and on work. Shepherd, as always, kept true to his word. They were allowed to stay at the house, so long as they did remote jobs. They took trips into the city for work when Shepherd needed them, but for the most part, they focused on creating a life together, apart from it all.

Without meaning to, they found themselves pretending that the house was theirs alone. Oscar had paid for it, after all, and the deed was in his name. The realtor knew their faces; their few neighbors now knew their names.

But deep down, in the weakest and darkest layers of their hearts, they knew nothing was theirs. They owned the house only because Shepherd allowed them to own it. He could have them evicted any moment, if he wanted. He could bulldoze it. He could burn it to the ground with them trapped inside. But he did none of those things.

Instead, he let them play house. It kept them happy, and he liked them happy. They did better work when they were happy.

And for the most part, they were.

Nearly a year passed this way—mostly idyllic, with small bursts of violent reality—before Jane resumed to their conversation from that first morning. She did not mention the wedding, not once, but she traced her thumb over her engagement ring the entire time she spoke, and he knew where her mind was. Children weren't the only thing they'd put off in recent months.

"I've been thinking about it," she began. "About how we can try and get out."

He closed his eyes. His mind had been looping back to the same question for the last year. But he had no answer for her, and he hated himself for it. As much as he loved her, as much as he needed her, he hated that he had trapped her here with him.

"All we need is enough money," Jane continued, undeterred by his silence. "We just need to string together enough jobs—"

"We can't buy our way to freedom," he interrupted. "That's a death trap, not an option. Shepherd doesn't do bargains."

"Who said anything about bargaining?"

He opened his eyes. "What are you…"

"We could run."

His eyes widened at the suggestion. " _Run?_ " His heart beat faster at just the thought.

"You've considered it before," she reminded him quietly. "You told me when you were a kid, you used to plan—"

"Those were fantasies, Jane. I never really tried, you know I didn't. And that's because I knew—I  _know_ —he'll always find me."

"Not if we truly disappear," she insisted. "We'll get new identities, new bank accounts, new passports. We'll change our appearances, we'll leave everything behind…" She reached across the table for his hand, and held it tightly in hers. "All we need is starting money. We just need a big enough job: we grab the take, we run, we never look back. You and me, together."

He looked down. He was starting to understand the ramifications of what she was getting at.

"We can't keep the house," he whispered.

She shook her head. "No," she agreed, and he could hear the tears in her voice. He knew what this place meant to her, the hope it symbolized. He knew it was just as hard for her to propose leaving it behind as it was for him to try and accept it.

"No, we can't keep the house, I'm sorry," she whispered. She swiped quickly at her cheeks with her free hand, and kept her other clasped tight around his. "But we can make another home. I swear we can."

She got up then, shoving her chair back. He picked his head up and watched as she came over to him, as she knelt down beside him. He had done this same thing to her, not too long ago. He had proposed wild plans. He had made romantic promises. He had held a ring.

"You and me," she whispered, taking his hands in hers and pressing them to her cheeks. "You and me and…and whoever else we make on the way. We can do it. I know we can." She smiled then, and looked up at him. He always remembered that, afterwards: the hope quivering on her lips, the love in her eyes, the determination in her grasp. He never forgot it.

Just like he never forgot how they almost succeeded.

* * *

When he dares to come back to it now, the house is a shell. The repairs he'd spent so many months painstakingly installing remain, but the place still looks broken without anyone living in it. It looks dead, with her gone.

And yet, he keeps it alive in his memory. Even after he leaves the house, he thinks of it still. In his dreams, he is back in it. He is in their bed, and she is sleeping beside him, and for that moment before he wakes to reality alone, he can almost smell the hay being cut outside. He can almost hear the birds. He can almost feel her reaching for him, kissing his cheek, whispering  _Another good morning to you_  like usual before she gets up.

Then he opens his eyes and her touch is gone. Her voice, nothing but a memory he struggles to renew each day. He is alone in the life he's chosen in order to protect her and he tells himself he doesn't regret it. He  _can't_ regret it, because the only other alternative was watching her die.

He doesn't know who ratted them out to Shepherd, or when. In fact, he doesn't even know if anyone  _did_ rat them out to Shepherd. Maybe Shepherd simply knew of their secret plan, as he had always known all their other secrets. It makes no matter now.

Shepherd forced their hand, unleashing the cops on them just when they'd been about to close a job,  _the_ job, and so they had run. The plan had always been for them to run together with their take, but the cops were closing in too fast, and from too many directions, and Oscar knew the best shot they both had of getting out alive was to separate. She hadn't wanted to; he had had to beg her— _Trust me. Jane, trust me._ —but in the end, it had been the right call, for she is still alive, and so is he.

He does not know where she is. For her safety, he has not tried to find her. He has no idea if Shepherd is tailing him, but he does know that if he is, the worst possible move he could make would be leading that man to her. As awful as it is, hiding from Shepherd means hiding from her—and doing so is all he can do to keep her alive.

Little keeps him alive these days. He keeps moving, ostensibly toward a target, but even he knows there is nothing at the end of the line. He tells himself that every step he takes will lead him back to her, but the truth is, he has no way of knowing if that is true or not.

Someday, perhaps, he will be able to find her again. Someday, maybe, they will do all those things they used to talk about. They will build a home and they will get married and they will have children and they will be happy. Someday.

Or so he tells himself.

**Author's Note:**

> Review would be lovely if you have thoughts. Thank you for reading!


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